


resurgence

by cedarmoons



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fake Character Death, Jaws of Hakkon Spoilers, Post-Game(s), Reunions, Secret Baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 11:53:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4220667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarmoons/pseuds/cedarmoons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She still remembers the aravels ablaze, the halla slaughtered, the alienage smoking from behind city walls as Wycome’s guard descended upon the clan. She remembers how Deshanna’s hands had trembled as she took up her staff. </p><p>“Vhenan, I thought you were dead,” Solas rasps, voice broken, and she kisses him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	resurgence

**Author's Note:**

> tONS of spoilers for jaws of hakkon dlc  
> other than that it's your daily dose of solavellan reunion and angst  
> enjoy :)

Ellana Lavellan hears wolves in the howling wind around her and shivers, forcing herself to make another step. The snow crunches and stops mid-calf, but she is too numb to the cold to feel anything around her legs. The mountains on either side of her are two dark shadows, rising impossibly tall but doing nothing to block out the blizzard.

She thinks of Haven all those years ago, charred flesh and flaming wood buried in the avalanche behind her. She thinks of climbing the mountainside in an aimless search for the survivors of the attack. She had nothing to live for then—nothing to keep her from sinking into the snow and surrendering to sleep.

But this time there is a bundle of warmth nestled against her chest, a little girl with grey-blue eyes and pointed ears, and Ellana must be strong for her.

She cannot feel her fingers or her legs, but she presses on. She can’t shout for help; every attempt will be swept away by the winds. She blinks and spots a speck of orange in the darkness, but it’s gone in a heartbeat. Did they still have a guard out here, even in this weather?

“Da’vhenan,” Ellana tells the whimpering girl strapped to her body. Her tears freeze on her cheeks and she cannot move her lips except for the slightest tremor. _You will live. I won’t fail you._

She gets to the edge of Stone-Bear Hold’s boundaries before a brutal gust of wind sends her to her knees. The cold seeps in through her thick furs and freezes her legs. They even numb the whispers in her head, for a time. Ellana allows herself a few seconds of respite before the voices of the Well are hissing two words at her, over and over again.

_Get up—_

Snowflakes stick to her eyebrows—the top half of her face is the only thing exposed to the blizzard—and dust her eyelashes. The wind carries the wolves’ howls again, but this time they seem much closer.

_Get up—_

She can see the nearest hut, a few paces away were she standing, and the faint orange glow surrounding the closed shutters.

_Get up—_

Her daughter whimpers, and Ellana Lavellan screams against her half-mask as she forces her numb legs to move. She staggers to her feet and stumbles through the snow, collapsing against the wooden hut with a loud thump. She can hear voices inside and one of the shutters beside her open. “By the Lady,” a woman gasps behind her. Ellana sinks into the snow, her hand cradling her daughter’s head.

The Avvar carry her into their hut, and the woman barks at the man. He pulls on the thickest furs from a table and leaves, slamming the door behind them. The woman lays Ellana down in front of the fire and starts removing her soaked boots. Ellana makes a noise, making the woman look up, and Ellana paws at the child on top of her, too numb to say the words.

The woman looks at her for a long moment, then cuts loose her daughter’s straps with a knife she snatches from underneath a cot’s pillow. Ellana watches the woman sing to her daughter in a thick, whispered brogue, and smiles as she closes her eyes and slips away.

* * *

She wakes up naked in a new hut, swaddled in bear- and wolf-skins and placed next to the fire. A woman crouches across from her, her face concealed by the shadow of her hood. Ellana licks her lips and coughs, making the woman look up.

“The whole world thinks you’re dead, Inquisitor First-Thaw,” Svarah Sun-Hair says. “Aye, looking at you, I almost believed it, you breathed so slow.”

Ellana’s fingers and feet tingle so intensely they burn, but she bites back her pain. She has begun to warm, but she is alone. “My daughter,” she whispers, voice hoarse. “Lialle—”

“Thyra’s taking care of her. The girl has your blood. She is strong.”

Ellana licks her lips again. “Can we stay?”

Svarah Sun-Hair chuckles. “You fought through a blizzard to get to Stone-Bear Hold. Even if you were a stranger, I would not turn such a warrior away. You are kin, Ellana First-Thaw. You stay as long as you like.”

Ellana sighs in response, and the Avvar thane is content to remain in silence. Svarah stays with her for several hours, but eventually she has to leave. Ellana shivers when the snow blows in, but the heat of the fire evaporates the cold. A few minutes after Svarah leaves, the door opens again and a man she half-recognizes comes in, leaning heavily on a wooden crutch.

“Inquisitor First-Thaw,” the blond man says, bowing his head. Only then does she recognize him, and her heart twists.

“Finn,” she whispers, shifting under the blanket of pelts. He raises a hand and she stills, watching him sit down in a chair positioned at the foot of her bed. “I’m in your house, aren’t I? Why am I—”

“Two years ago you made sure I would not be fatherless,” he says. “I told you I could not be able to repay you. No one else in Stone-Bear Hold has the beds for a woman and her child. I volunteered. As long as you are here, you are welcome to mine and my own.”

“Thank you,” she says, watching him shuffle to what seems like a workbench. The table is filled with blocks of wood and half-finished carvings, and the immediate area around it is dusted with wood shavings. “Are you a carpenter now?”

Finn rests his crutch against the table and picks up a small knife. “I can’t hunt, not with my leg. A lowlander came through and offered to teach me, so now I am a carpenter for the Hold. The men who trade with the lowlanders sell my wares.”

“Are you happy?”

Finn stops carving. “Yes,” he admits at last. “And you had a hand in it.”

“It’s what anyone would do.” She closes her eyes. Ellana can feel sensation returning to her—she can feel the soft wolf pelt draped across her stomach, feel the warmth of the fire. Good. All were good signs.

It’s nightfall by the time she is able to move properly again, though her joints crack every time she shifts. Svarah Sun-Hair returns again, but this time she brings a man Ellana recognizes as the augur with her. The augur holds a sleeping Lialle in one of his massive arms. Fear spikes through her, but she forces herself to relax.

“You’re faring well,” Svarah remarks. She sits down on the ground. “Some thought you’d truly die this time. It seems there are those who’ve already forgotten your deeds. No one who fought Hakkon Wintersbreath and won would succumb to a blizzard.”

“Your girl,” the augur interrupts. “What is her name?”

“Lialle,” Ellana says. She holds her arms out, a wordless beckoning, but the augur does not heed her. He stares down at her daughter, his mouth set in a thin line and his face expressionless.

“The spirits sing of her already,” the augur tells her, his voice gravely and deep. Ellana hears Kieran’s voice somewhere in the back of her mind. _Your blood is very old_. “They can already sense the lightning and ice in her blood, though it still sleeps. Some are clamoring to teach her, once she is of age. I have not seen such a thing in all my years. Her father must have been a powerful mage.”

A lump forms in her throat. She remembers the week before they reached Crestwood, the night Solas gave himself over to her and they spent the night learning each other. She had never seen him so happy, so free, as he had been that week with her. And then he had left her in tears at the grove.

“He was,” Ellana whispers through cracked lips. The whispers surge to the forefront of her mind, their voices too soft or too jumbled for her to make out anything, but their incomprehensibility did nothing to stop the headache from forming. This time, when she holds out her arms, the augur gives her the child. Lialle shifts in her sleep, but she doesn’t wake.

“Finn,” Svarah says. “Will you take Ellana First-Thaw and her child into your home, as guest and kin of the Hold?”

Finn sets down his carving tools and rises to his feet, leaning heavily on his stick. “Gladly. What is mine is yours, Inquisitor.”

“Cassandra Pentaghast is the Inquisitor now,” Svarah says, her voice sharper than Ellana had expected. “Ellana Lavellan is dead. Her body is burnt along with the rest of her clan on Wycome’s soil.” Svarah stands up and crosses to Ellana, careful consideration in the grim set of her mouth. The thane’s thumb brushes Ellana’s cheek, tracing tattooed branches no longer there. “But Ria of Stone-Bear Hold, an elfling abandoned on the mountain as a girl and taken in by us. _She_ yet lives.”

* * *

The vir’abelasan goes silent the day Lialle speaks for the first time—six months later, on her first nameday. Finn is massaging his leg, preparing for the day, and Ellana sits beside him. When her daughter yawns from her cradle and coos “Mamae,” holding out her hands between the bars of the crib, Ellana freezes.

“Did you hear that?” she asks, exchanging a breathless grin with Finn. She gets up and hurries to the crib, pulling Lialle out and holding her against her chest. “Da’vhenan, what did you say?”

“Mamae,” Lialle repeats, blinking slate-blue eyes up at her. Her hair is growing long, now, thick black curls that brush her chin and more than cover her pointed ears. Ellana feels tears prick her eyes, but she laughs and kisses her daughter, twirling her around. Lialle shrieks in delight, but when they stop she twists in Ellana’s arms and turns toward Finn. “Papae!” Lialle squeals, reaching out with chubby hands.

Finn freezes, his hands still working the cold from his bum leg, and looks up at the two of them. Something like awe crosses his face, soft and joyous, but Ellana can’t help the knot of uncertainty that bundles in her gut. No longer smiling, she kisses Lialle and crosses the room, handing her over to Finn.

Lialle makes quick work of standing on still-unsteady legs and trying to crawl over Finn. Finn allows her adventure with a grin, but once Lialle is distracted he looks at Ellana. “I’m sorry,” the Avvar tells her. “We could tell her—”

“No.” Ellana forces herself to smile and touches Finn’s arm. _It’s been a year,_ she thinks to herself. _The world thinks me dead. Solas as well, if he even knows._ “We’ve lived together for six months. It’s only… natural, I suppose. Lady knows—” she stops short, then laughs to herself. She had cursed with _Andraste’s tits_ as often as _fenedhis_ or _shit_ at Skyhold—what was one more god assimilated? “Lady knows the Keep thinks us married in all but name.”

Finn grows quiet at that, and when Lialle notices that he no longer plays her game, she collapses in his lap with a huff. He strokes her black hair and says, “Do you think she’ll ever meet her father?”

Lialle pushes Finn’s hand away and crawls into her lap instead. Ellana hoists her daughter up on her shoulders and smiles as Lialle squeals in delight. As Lialle plays with her braided hair, Ellana turns to Finn.

“You are her father now, Finn. If I could not make him stay…” she wants to say _nothing will_ , but the words are caught on her tongue, because—she truly does not know. The selfish part of her wants to know.

She wants to imagine Solas with Lialle cradled in his arms. Solas teaching Lialle how to wield her magic. Solas taking Lialle into the Fade and introducing her to spirits of Hope and Faith and Compassion.

She waits for the vir’abelasan to cut in, as it always did when she thought of Solas, but nothing happens. She and Finn wait in a short silence, and Finn breaks it with—“He did not know what he left behind.” Finn lifts his hand, reaching for her cheek, but seems to think better of it and he returns to massaging his leg.

Ellana pulls Lialle down from her daughter’s perch on her shoulders, mind racing at the strange emptiness in her mind. She had had the voices of the Well with her so long—she had forgotten how it felt— _something is wrong_.

“You are too kind,” she tells him. “I—I need to see the augur. Watch Lialle?”

“Of course,” Finn agrees. He’s barely done speaking before she’s out the door.

The augur is surrounded by blue smoke when she enters the hut. Lavellan sits opposite the fire, crossing her legs and watching the spirits flicker between the smoke. Some of them get so close to her she can see faint impressions of their faces.

When the smoke filters out of the room and most of the hut is clear, the augur’s eyes open slowly. He pins her with a careful, studying look. “The spirits in you are…” he stops, his eyes narrowing underneath his painted ramleather mask. “They are gone. What has happened?”

Ellana touches her face despite herself. “I don’t know,” she says. “But I fear what will happen now that they’re gone. Please, I need more.”

She drinks the augur’s potion that night after tucking Lialle into bed. Finn is already half-asleep, but he’s awake enough to wrap an arm around her waist and pull her closer to him. Ellana doesn’t mind; it’s warmer under the furs when she’s next to him.

“Thank you, Finn,” she whispers tiredly as she closes her eyes.

Her sleep is silent and black and dreamless, as it has been since she left Wycome.

* * *

**two years later**

* * *

They come on the back of a blizzard. Ellana only knows they’re there because the howling wind carried wolves on its back and kept her awake. She sees one stranger through the crack of the window shutters: an elven man with shoulder-length black hair who wears thick furs but goes barefoot in the snow. He has a build like Solas, like Abelas, like the ancient elves. A whisper of fear snakes through her. “Finn,” she murmurs, binding her feet in fur and shaking the man beside her awake. “Guests are here.”

The sleep that had clouded Finn’s eyes fades away and he sits up, hands already moving to massage the sore muscles in his leg. Ellana places his crutch by his side and moves to Lialle’s crib. “Da’vhenan, wake up,” she coos softly, and Lialle opens her eyes with the tiniest whimper. She’s already undoing the braids that keep the hair out of her daughter’s face, shaking it out until the thick black waves cover her ears completely. While they prepare, Ellana catches snippets of conversation outside.

“We mean you no harm,” an unfamiliar voice says—the brunette elf outside. “I have been told that you have a leader. Thane Svarah Sun-Hair. We wish to speak to her.”

Ellana stills, her hands pausing with her daughter’s cloak fastenings of leather and bone. _We?_ She looks out the window again, but she can only see the new man and one of the Avvar hunters.

One of the hunters grunt. “Very well. Come with me.”

Lialle makes a noise as she stretches, and Ellana hushes her with a whisper as she finishes preparing her daughter for the cold outside. When Lialle and Finn are ready, Ellana crosses the room and deposits her in the carpenter’s arms. “Thank you,” she tells Finn, as she does every time they have to do this. Guests had loose tongues, and any lowlander may very well be able to know who she was on sight. If they knew Inquisitor Lavellan had survived the attack on her clan—if they knew she had a daughter…

“Don’t thank me until we’re safe,” Finn replies, as he does every time. He gets to his feet and only barely needs the use of his crutch. “My leg’s not so bad anymore. I might even be able to hunt proper this time.” Ellana kisses his forehead and gets dressed for the spring weather outside. While she gets ready, she feels the steadying magic of the augur wrap around her, gathering around the Anchor and cloaking its magic from the outside world. _Ma serannas,_ she thinks, and hopes the augur knows.

As she wraps thick brown cloth around the Anchor to drown its light, she watches the scene unfold outside. People are already coming out, intrigued by the commotion. Finn and Lialle will not be noticed. Once Ellana’s dressed, they leave the hut, and Ellana makes sure to pin the cloth that shields her mouth and nose to the edge of her fur-trimmed hood.

“Go,” Ellana urges Finn. The visiting elf turns around and sweeps his gaze across his surroundings. For a moment, she thinks he sees her—but then he’s turning back around, nothing about his posture betraying him. Surely if he had recognized her he would’ve reacted. She sees another hooded visitor beside the first, and something about him seems so familiar—she looks again, but someone steps in her way, concealing the elves.

As more people leave the warmth of their homes to go see the guests and Thane Svarah, Finn and Lialle slip through the mountain pass to the swamp, silent as death and well-hidden by the blizzard. The snow covers any tracks they make. Ellana breathes her sigh of relief, her momentary distraction gone. The wind picks up again, but instead of wolves, she hears the distinct quork of a raven.

Ellana turns around and sees two ravens resting on one of the roofs, side-by-side. Their black eyes are focused on her alone. Fear twists in her belly and weighs her heart with stone. Ellana swallows and turns around, resisting the urge to sprint to Svarah’s cave.

The crowd has already gathered. Some of the taller warriors make room so she can stand behind them—so she can hear, but not be seen. Ellana draws her hood further forward and looks at the ground. “Aye, I am Svarah Sun-Hair,” Svarah says. “Who seeks guest-welcome at Stone-Bear Hold?”

“My name is Dirthamen,” says the voice belonging to the black-haired elf she’d seen. Her chest hollows out and her eyes widen, but she forces herself to breathe evenly. Though several bodies were between them to hide her from sight, it didn’t mean the elf’s—Dirthamen’s—ears no longer worked. He would hear her, and he would know. “My companion here is Fen’Harel.”

Ellana stiffens, eyes widening, her breath escaping her in a soft gasp. 

“Fen’Harel?” Svarah’s tone is suspicious. “I know you. We met when you came with Inquisitor First-Thaw, to kill Hakkon Wintersbreath. That was not your name then.”

“You are correct,” Solas replies, tone just as even and calm as she remembered. Ellana looks up, her mouth going dry as she sees the hooded elf push back his cowl. _Oh, gods,_ she thinks, and suddenly feels sick. “Solas was an alias which I assumed during my time with the Inquisition. Fen’Harel is my true name.”

The vir’abelasan wakes at his voice.

The whispers surge to the forefront of her mind, their voices overlapping each other in a desperate clamor until they focus on a mantra to repeat to her as one. Once the voices find their words, they repeat it, over and over again for her: _it is true_. The men in front of Svarah Sun-Hair are the Creators Dirthamen and Fen’Harel.

Ellana’s head throbs with an abrupt and terrible headache, but it is the shock of the vir’abelasan’s words that make her knees almost give out. She grabs the huntmaster’s arm and bites her tongue so hard she tastes blood in her mouth. The huntmaster shoots her an irritated look, but one look at her face and his irritation morphs into concern. “You all right, lass?”

A mistake. He shouldn’t have spoken. They would hear him, even if Svarah had not. She peeks around a hunter’s arm and sees Dirthamen and Solas turning their heads—she spins around, so the only thing they can see is the back of her furs. Her stomach roils, and her fingers tighten on the huntmaster’s arm.

All Ellana can see in her mind’s eye is Solas. She had figured he was an ancient—not everything he’d learned could have possibly come from the Fade, and he spoke of Arlathan with too much familiarity for him to have never witnessed it in person—but _Fen’Harel_.

Fen’Harel was another matter altogether.

The huntmaster wraps an arm around her waist and ushers her out of the cave, leading her to her hut. “What’s wrong with ye?” the huntmaster says. His voice is gruff, but she hears his concern.

“Nothing,” Ellana replies. She inhales the sharp, cold spring air several times, trying to steady her racing heartbeat. How had she missed the signs? The affinity for wolves, his reluctance to discuss Fen’Harel at the Temple, his cryptic remarks. _I do not believe they are gods,_ Solas—Fen’Harel—had told her. _No true god need prove himself._

The huntmaster takes her to her hut and sits her down on the cot. She barely notices the change in scenery or temperature.

 _Lying awake, trapped in a mirror_ , Cole had said.

 _It is true_ , the whispers wail in her head, as close as if they had been standing next to her. _The harellan has returned_.

She had loved the Dread Wolf. She had had a _child_ with the Dread Wolf. Oh, if Deshanna could see her now— _if Deshanna was alive_ , a part of her thinks.

“Oh, Creators,” she whispers, burying her face in her hands. She had loved Fen’Harel, and now he was here with Dirthamen. Of all the Creators, he had chosen to arrive with the Lord of Secrets. If he did not know she was here already, he would soon. “I need to get to the swamp. I can’t be here.”

“What?” The huntmaster crosses his arms. “No. It’s too dangerous. Finn knows the risks, and he’s left here a thousand times before. Aye, you’re one of our best hunters. I’ll not risk you t’ the storm.”

She hears footsteps crunching in the snow outside and stiffens when someone knocks. “They wanted to see Ria,” Thyra says, reluctant and begrudging. Ellana doesn’t move, but she hears three separate pairs of footsteps enter the hut and makes sure to spread her fingers, covering more of her face.

“Is she well?” Dirthamen asks. Someone kneels on the bear rug in front of her. “You need not hide from me… Ria. We are both of the People, are we not?”

Ellana doesn’t move. “Don’t think she wants t’ talk to you, lowlanders,” the huntmaster says gruffly. “She don’t like elves much. Thyra, what’d we miss?”

“These two plan on waiting out the blizzard. They want t’ go t’ Skyhold and speak with Inquisitor Pentaghast. Svarah gave them guest-welcome. Since they have no place t’ stay, they’re staying with us. The augur said the snows will be gone by week’s end, as well.”

“Good,” the huntmaster huffs. “It’ll be a better hunt when the snow isn’t up to our knees.”

“Does… Ria participate in the hunts?” Solas— _Fen’Harel_ —asks.

“Ask her yourself, if you’re so interested, brother,” Dirthamen says. There’s something like dark amusement in his voice. Feet shuffle—is he moving away from her?

“No,” Thyra replies, voice stiff. “She’s shite at a bow and daggers. She helps prepare the dead with Gyda.”

A complete lie, of course—Ellana could almost kiss the woman. She isn’t sure if the elves believe her or not. Dirthamen says nothing, but Solas sighs in a short way that almost makes her think he is disappointed. Someone stops at her side again, and she feels Solas touch her shoulder. She knows it’s him because—well, she would know his touch anywhere. She jerks away before she can think of her reaction. “I—” Solas pauses, faltering. “We have disturbed you long enough. Mistress Thyra, you were going to show us our lodgings?”

“Aye. Come with me, lowlanders.”

The moment they’re gone, Ellana uncovers her face. “You alright now, lass?” the huntmaster asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow as he stares down at her. “That elf… the one who touched your shoulder. I saw you two together when ye came t’ fight Hakkon.”

“Aye,” Ellana mutters, helpless. “He of all people should be the last one to know the truth.”

Outside, she hears a raven quork, and a flap of feathers as the bird flies away.

* * *

The next night, the dinner feast begins as usual, but Ellana isn’t there for the festivities. She never is, not when there are guests in the hold. She grabs her food before the feast begins and takes it to her own hut, careful to avoid the eyes of everyone who spares her a passing glance.

The sun had set an hour ago, but she can still hear the revelry from outside. She takes off her outer coat, leaving her in a soft ram’s wool tunic trimmed with wolf fur, and starts a fire. As she sits down to eat, she can’t help but wonder how Finn and Lialle are doing. Finn had never complained, and she knew that the hunters snuck them some food every day, but that knowledge doesn’t stop her from worrying.

Just as she starts to dig into the last vestiges of her salted ram, someone knocks at the door. Ellana freezes. _It’s him,_ she thinks, instinctively. _It has to be him._

She sets down her plate and rushes to pull on her overcoat, to cover every inch of her that might be recognizable. The visitor knocks again, a familiar one-two-three rap of two knuckles that makes her mouth go dry. The sound makes her heart beat faster even as her stomach clenches in fear. _Fen’Harel has come to our home at last, da’len,_ Deshanna had told her, during the first of the attacks that would doom Clan Lavellan. _I can only pray he does not catch the scent of your child._

The child. His child. Lialle. Ellana fastens the mask over her nose and mouth with shaking hands. The third knock makes her swallow as she turns on her heel and walks to the door. He won’t know her, she decides. The gods were surely _furious_ with Fen’Harel—why they had not destroyed him yet, she didn’t know, but she knows that if Lialle was discovered to be his daughter… she shudders, and opens the door.

Fen’Harel stands in front of her, his head bowed and his mouth twisted in a way that only happens when he’s lost in unpleasant thought. For a moment, he looks so much like Solas a lump forms in her throat.

But then he looks up, and the veneer she had tried to maintain, to keep the two separate, dissipates. Fen’Harel _is_ Solas, she can tell even without the vir’abelasan screaming half-faded whispers in her ear. It’s just reconciling the two that troubles her—her gentle, calm vhenan, who delighted in stories and the Fade, is meant to be a secret madman and the Betrayer. For the life of her, she cannot see him as anyone but Solas.

“May I come in?” he asks, clasping his hands in front of him. She sees the snow behind him, but imagines the sunlight and— _it seems you are the key to our salvation_.

His voice is hoarse, soft and desperate at the edges. Ellana only lets him in because she doesn’t want snow blowing into her hut. Once they’re inside, she shuts the door and checks the windows again to make sure they’re closed and covered properly.

Ellana says nothing to him. The blood roars in her ears, pounding with her heartbeat to drown everything out. Solas is quiet for a long time, staring at the floor. He turns back to her after several long moments. “I am sorry for this interruption,” he whispers, his brows pulling together and his mouth tugging into a slight frown. “You have her eyes, but the villagers… they all say the same story. You were a foundling, abandoned on the side of the mountain. We did not see you when the Inquisition fought Hakkon, because you had gone on a week-long trip to trade with lowlanders. Please, I need to know.”

He inhales, shakily, and his words come out a broken whisper. “Are you Ellana Lavellan?”

When she does not reply, he reaches for her, slowly at first. Ellana watches his hand, waiting. Once she realizes its destination—he reaches for the side of her hood, where her mask is fastened in place—she moves out of his reach and shakes her head. A clear rejection.

Solas’s face falls, and his face— _despondency,_ she thinks. _Pure despair. A feast for any demon_. Her heart thumps in the center of her ribcage. The hut is silent for a long moment, and she can see the minute trembles in his hands.

She wants to say so many things, but she is dead to the world, has been dead for years. Resurrection would only cause more problems. It would be better for her—for Lialle—if he thought Ellana was dead. He had left her in that damned grove and never told her why.

 _Well_ , she thinks, _this is why._

Solas—her vhenan—was Fen’Harel, the Betrayer who had freed his captives. Captives who undoubtedly would seek revenge. 

_This fate is mine alone. Indeed, I would not wish it on an enemy, much less on someone I once cared for._

When Cole had repeated those words to her, she could not imagine why Solas had had such a dark outlook on his fate. Now she understood it far too well. Andruil, Falon’Din… Elgar’nan. Mythal’enaste,  _Elgar’nan._ The very thought of what the All-Father might do to Lialle turns her blood to ice.

“Dirthamen thought you were mute,” Solas murmurs, his hand falling back to his side. His words snap her out of her thoughts. He clenches his hand into a fist, once, and his whole body slumps with his sigh. “I had hoped, when I first saw you… I am a fool,” he says, shaking his head. “ _Ir abelas_. I apologize for intruding. It will not happen again.”

Ellana realizes she stands in front of the door and moves to the right so he may pass. He does so, nearly brushing her, and Ellana shuts her eyes. Her heart pounds below her ribcage. Every whisper of the Well hisses _harellan_ in her ear.

None of it stops her from stepping forward and placing her left hand on his arm.

Solas stops and stares at her, his hand slowly coming up to clasp her wrist. His touch is gentler than even when he had removed her vallaslin. Ellana opens her eyes and holds up her other hand, pushing down her sleeve to emphasize the lack of wrappings on her right hand. Her eyes never leave his.

Solas inhales sharply and turns to her left wrist. It almost seems that he holds his breath as he finds the loose end and tugs it free. The reverence with which he unwraps the binding around her Anchor seems reserved for rituals, not unwinding a strip of wool, but it does not fail to keep her breath from catching in her throat.

He unwraps her wrist until it is bare, and the Anchor’s pulse of faint green glows against his tunic. Solas shuts his eyes and brings her palm to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to it. “Vhenan,” he sighs, his breath hitching. He nuzzles her palm, his eyes squeezed shut. Something like warmth floods her heart and melts the ice that had built up with every blizzard. “I have missed you.”

Her hand skims over his cheek to cup his face. Her thumb strokes the wet skin under his eye. He has circles, she realizes. He must be exhausted. _Oh, Solas, why?_

Ellana doesn’t know she’s crying until she sniffs. His eyes open and his gaze focuses on her face. He holds her waist and pulls her to him, but his whole body trembles as he lifts a shaking hand to undo the clasp that holds her mask in place. In a moment, the mask falls to rest against her collarbone. Solas pushes her hood down and tucks her hair behind her pointed ears, his fingertips lingering at the tips.

Ellana shivers. Solas cups her face in his hands and rests his forehead against hers. She closes her eyes, something within her raw and aching at the old touch.

“I heard you were dead when we reached Orlais,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “The local town crier was announcing something that Inquisitor Pentaghast had done. Apparently, Inquisitor Lavellan had been dead for three years. She was slaughtered with her clan by Ben-Hassrath operates in Wycome, with the nobles’ full knowledge, and consent, and even _participation_. Do you know what I did?”

He strokes her cheeks, as if he must remind himself that she is real. Ellana leans into his touch, not trusting herself to speak. His breath fans over her face, shaky and disbelieving, and his thumbs press against her cheekbones. “First I hunted the Fade. For weeks, I searched for your spirit, but found nothing. I denied it for a month before I accepted your death. I went to a forest and screamed my grief until my throat was raw.” His lips curl back into a small, savage snarl. “And then I found Duke of Wycome and haunted his dreams until his mind broke.”

Ellana cannot stop the thick, heavy feeling of cruel satisfaction that curdles in her blood at his words. She still remembers the aravels ablaze, the halla slaughtered, the alienage smoking from behind city walls as Wycome’s guard descended upon the clan. She remembers how Deshanna’s hands had trembled as she took up her staff. _Run, da’len, and take your child. We will protect our own_.

“Vhenan, I thought you were dead,” he rasps, voice broken, and she kisses him. _Harellan_ , the voices howl, as best as fading whispers are able. She ignores them and the headache they bring. She could no sooner abandon him than she could rip out her heart.

He clutches her to him, kissing her like a man in the desert desperate to slake his thirst. Ellana takes everything he gives and pushes back, pouring into the kiss her own grief and urgency and _love_. She grips the wolf fur at his waist and tugs him closer to her, kissing his lips open and opening her mouth when his tongue brushes against her upper lip.

She knows she should push him away and run, as any sane elf would do if they came face-to-face with the Dread Wolf. But she can feel his adoration running through her and can’t help but get swept away by the current.

The man before her—he was the man she knew, the man she loved; Solas. Solas who had whispered _ma’salath_ or _vhenan’ara_ or _ma’sal’shiral_ into her mouth like a prayer. Solas who had clutched her to him every night, holding her like she was the tether in his storm. Solas who had loved her, who had _adored_ her.

What did it matter what he had been in the past, when what mattered was what he was in the present? What did it matter what his name was, if his spirit was unchanged?

Her clan would hate her if they knew her thoughts now. Her mother would look at her with sad eyes. _Da’len, you have betrayed the People. The Dread Wolf came and you did not fell him with your arrows._

Ellana pulls away and sucks in air between her teeth, shuddering. Solas follows her without thinking, eyes half-lidded and hands gripping her waist. Ellana looks up at him and presses her lips to his. This kiss is unforgiving, relentless. Ellana had never hated him for leaving, but now that he is in her arms she allows her long-extinguished anger to slip into the kiss. She bites his lip, and Solas growls low in his throat as he pushes her against the cold stone wall and deepens the kiss.

Yes, there is fear, deep in her soul, and some primal part of herself half expects him to turn into a hulking black monster at any moment—but if he devours her soul and consumes her body, Ellana would only hope he spares their daughter.

Their kiss softens, slows, stops. Ellana brushes a kiss across his cheek and rests her head between his neck and shoulder. Solas shudders at her touch. When she licks her lips and tastes tears, she can’t be sure if they’re hers or his. His arms wrap around her, drawing her closer, and he rests his chin on her head.

Ellana can feel her heartbeat against his chest, thrumming with a hummingbird’s speed. His heart is rapid as well under her palm, but steady. “Fen’Harel,” she whispers, tasting the name on her lips. It is strange and foreign and makes her stomach twist. But she thinks she could grow accustomed to it.

He stiffens, hands flexing on her waist. After a long moment, he relaxes, and he sighs into her hair. “I did not wish for you to find out this way.”

“No. You didn’t want me to find out at all.” She digs through her heart to find some trace of her anger from before and comes up empty. Ellana shuts her eyes and bites her lip, but it does not stop the tears from trickling down her face. _I can only hope that one day you understand_ , he’d told her. “Was Solas a ruse? Did you ever truly care for me?”

He jerks away from her, as if her words were a burn, or an electric shock. He looks at her, horrified, and for a moment she thinks that she’s caught him in a truth he can’t deny—a new emotion appears in his eyes, a flinty determination she recognizes.

He strides forward and answers her with a fierce kiss. When they part, he drags in a ragged breath. “Never doubt it, emma lath. Ar lath ma, vhenan’ara, arasha,” he whispers, pulling away so he can brush kisses across her jaw, little pecks that seep into her skin and brand her with his love. “My love for you—”

He stops. Pulls away from her, just slightly. Ellana swallows, hating herself for missing his warmth. “You are the brightest light in my life, vhenan,” he tells her. His gaze is solemn, his mouth set in a straight, thin line as his brows draw together.

And then he steps away, as he always does. Ellana shuts her eyes and looks down, but Solas’s fingertips catch her chin. He tilts her head up. “I will not see Dirthamen or Andruil or Elgar’nan snuff you out.”

He sweeps his thumb across her cheek and kisses her forehead, chaste and tender. It almost soothes the edges of her heart he left ragged and raw. Almost. “Seeing you. It was… a comfort. Still, I should not have risked your safety.” He steps away, turns around—and he sees the cradle across the room.

His breath catches. His hands clench into fists before they relax and rest at his sides. The silence stretches on. Ellana doesn’t know what to say—she can’t trust herself to speak. “Dirthamen’s ravens saw her leaving the Hold,” Solas says at last, his shoulders drooping. She stiffens, fear coiling in her gut. “I did not think… ir abelas, vhenan. You have rebuilt a life for yourself here, and now I have intruded. How you must hate me—”

“No,” Ellana cuts him off, a savage fierceness in her voice she has not heard in a long while. The new emotion swallows her fear and spits up a strange sort of rage in its place. “No. Don’t you dare finish that sentence. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

She crosses her arms and suppresses the urge to turn him around again. Silence fills the hut once more. She should not tell him. It would be better if he thought Lialle was Finn’s daughter. She had spent years telling herself that Solas ( _Fen’Harel,_ she must remember, she _must_ ) would never know of her daughter, but now that he is here—the words spill before she can stop herself. “She is three years old. I have been in the Hold for but two years.”

Solas turns around and looks at her, panic in his slate-blue eyes. “Then…” She nods at his silent question.  He looks away. A string of quiet, rushed, unintelligible Elvish flows past his lips.

Ellana takes him by his free hand and leads him to the bed. They sit down together. Solas trembles beside her, and when he looks at her, his eyes are full of anguish. “I should have stayed,” he whispers at last. “If I had known… our daughter—”

Ellana reaches up and cradles the back of his head, pulling him toward her until his forehead rests on her collarbone. Solas clutches her lower back and stills, his breath slowing as he listens to her heartbeat. “Tell me about her?” he asks. It sounds like it should be a command, but it comes out a whispered, fervent plea.

“Her first word was mamae,” she obliges, a fresh round of tears pricking at her eyes. She tilts her head back to look at the ceiling and swallows thickly. “Her favorite color is blue. She sleeps with a ragdoll nug every night. She will be a mage—the augur says that her blood sings with ice and lightning magic. She loves the snow and she loves to run.”

Solas is silent at her words, but his fingers dig into her lower back. “I should not have come to you,” he whispers, voice rough and thick with grief. “I’ve endangered you both. I—I have been so selfish. Vhenan, please, forgive me—”

“Her name is Lialle,” Ellana finishes, “and she has your eyes.”

Solas shudders in her arms. For a long time, there is nothing but the crackling of the fire and their steady, shallow breaths.

Outside, a raven caws and takes wing.

**Author's Note:**

> da'vhenan: my little heart  
> ma serannas: my thanks  
> ma’salath: my one love  
> vhenan’ara: my heart's desire  
> ma’sal’shiral: you are my journey  
> ir abelas: I'm sorry  
> Mythal'enaste: Mythal's blessing, used as an oath  
> harellan: traitor  
> emma lath: my love  
> Ar lath ma, vhenan’ara, arasha: I love you, my heart's desire, my happiness


End file.
